


Letters To Santa: A Glimpse Into The Life Of Clint Barton

by NiTeLight



Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Christmas Letters, Gen, Phil/Clint at the end if you want to squint, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:43:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiTeLight/pseuds/NiTeLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A selection of letters from throughout Clint's lifetime, and a look at how they've touched the lives of those who find them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Older Brother's Lead (Barney, age 9)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Eight Christmases](https://archiveofourown.org/works/601940) by [ProfessorBeast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorBeast/pseuds/ProfessorBeast). 



> This is a little story I wrote over Christmas. The POV is given in each chapter title for extra clarity, since it changes from chapter to chapter. I don't think this story has much that's blatantly triggering, but just to be safe trigger warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter, as appropriate. PLEASE tell me if I missed anything. 
> 
> If you like the story, please comment! I love hearing from you all!
> 
> I'd also like to give a big thank you to GrayBastian for taking time out of her busy schedule to beta for me, as well as a hug for all my friends (you know who you are) who encouraged me and gave me feedback.
> 
> Happy reading!  
> NiTe

Dear Santa,

I know I’ve been bad some of the time this year because my brother’s a brat but I have ~~treid~~ tried to be good. I hope you will bring me a few of these things.

  * A really cool nerf gun like the one Jack Peters has
  * Toy plane
  * ~~Captan~~ Captain America action figure
  * Legos
  * A new basket ball



Signed,

Charles Bernard Barton

P.S. How tall are elves?

_____

“Barney? What’s that?” a young voice piped up from near his elbow. Charles “Barney” Barton looked down to see Clint watching him curiously.

“It’s a letter, dummy,” the nine year old replied.

“Oh. To who?”

“Santa Claus.”

“Why?”

“So he’ll know what to bring you.” Barney threw in an eye rollfor good measure. Sometimes his baby brother could be so stupid sometimes – he was only five after all. “You want him to get you something, don’t you?”

Clint nodded, wide-eyed.


	2. Following His Example (Clint, age 5)

Edith looked up as her younger son padded into the kitchen.

“Mommy?”

The child clutched paper and pencil to his chest, eyes hopeful. She smiled fondly at the adorable picture he made. “Yes, dear?”

“I want to write a letter to Santa.” He held out the writing supplies. “Help?”

Her heart melted. Dusting off her hands on her apron, she knelt in front of him. “I’ll make you a deal. You help me finish making these cookies for Santa and we can write your letter together while they’re in the oven. How’s that sound, sweetie-pie?”

“Um hmm!” Clint’s head bobbed enthusiastically. “We make the cookie! And then! And then you write _Santa_! Yup!” Each phrase was punctuated by a bounce on his heels as the excited boy vibrated with barely-restrained energy. Edith laughed and kissed his forehead. Clint bore it impatiently, squirming where he stood.

“Go on then,” she said, turning him around and nudging him towards the door. “Wash your hands. And use soap!”

_____

“So,” she said, sitting down. “What do you want to tell Santa?”

Eyes sparkling and a smile like the sun, Clint began to speak.

_____

 

Dear Santa,

How are you? I’ve been really good this year and I’ve been mostly nice to my brother. I want a toy truck and a dragon and a bow and arrow like Robin Hood. Thank you.

Love,

Clint

P.S. My mom helped me write this letter. Get her something nice too, please.


	3. A Secret Unspoken (Clint, age 5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mentions/brief descriptions of domestic violence and alcoholism.

Clint huddled under the desk, hands clapped over his ears to drown out the sound of Daddy’s yelling and the dull thwack of fists against flesh. In the lulls, the young boy could faintly hear Mommy’s choked off sobs and stifled whimpers. Thank goodness, Daddy would never find him here. Just to be sure, though, he squirmed a bit further under the old oak desk. It was cramped in the space between drawers and wall, but it made him completely out of sight. Safe. No one would think to look for him here. He was pretty sure Daddy didn’t even know this space was here.

He dug his fists more firmly against his ears as tears quietly slid down his face.

 _Make it stop,_ he pleaded silently. He didn’t really know who he was asking, he just hoped _someone_ was listening.

Wait! Wait, he _did_ know! He just needed paper and something to write with…

He turned his ear more toward the front of the desk. It didn’t _sound_ like anyone was nearby. Clint leaned forward, edging one eye past the edge of the drawers. Between the chair’s legs, he examined the room. Across from him was the bookshelf of all the books they didn’t read and the big cabinet where Mommy stored the important papers and the faded rug that still smelled like Grandma’s house even though they’d had it all Clint’s life. However, what he saw was trumped by what he didn’t see-- people.

Rocking side to side, he tried to quietly get himself unstuck from where he’d wedged himself. He twisted his body over the chair, snaking his arms around the arm rests. Sliding his fingers across the panels, he felt for the correct drawer handle by memory.

Daddy’s stuttering footsteps rumbled through the house as he stormed from the kitchen. Panicked, Clint yanked himself back, scrambling backwards to press himself against the wall.  His head thwacked painfully against the top of the desk and he swallowed a yelp. Clint silently sucked in his breath, holding it.

Boots paused in the doorway. Time seemed to stop, the world frozen as if it, too, was waiting to see what would happen. A friction burn from his earlier rush started to smart, the skin warming and tingling but he ignored it.

Against his will, fear crawled from the ice in his chest to make a second home at the base of his chin.

_Am I far enough back? Can Daddy see my toes?_

His eyes flicked longingly to the black shadows of his former hiding spot, just inches away, but he knew better than to attempt to crawl there; Dad would hear the wood creak and the scuff of Clint’s pants on the floor and Clint’d get the whoppin’ of his life.

_Don’t let him see me, don’t let him see me, don’tlethimseeme!_

His lungs burned, but he remained stubborn. In the absolute quiet, Clint could hear his blood thundering in rapid pulses.

Daddy grunted. The boots stumbled out of sight into the next room, followed by the creak of bed springs as the man fell into bed.

With shaky control, Clint let out his breath.  Doing his best not to gasp in the welcome air, he breathed in. The scent of Daddy’s drinks scratched at his throat. He wrinkled his nose. Yuck.

He breathed out again, far past the point he normally would, trying to get all the bad smelling air out, hoping it would clear away the aftertaste in his mouth.

His ears strained for any sound of life as he struggled to get his breathing back under control. The house was back to its usual somber quiet. Now that Daddy was in bed, he wasn’t likely to move any time soon - not until he needed anoth ~~7~~ er drink; they were safe for the next few hours. The TV sounded quietly from elsewhere (Barney, no doubt), its cheerful chatter sounding wrong in the wake of Daddy’s anger and Mommy’s pain. Straining his ears, Clint could hear that she was still in the kitchen, her shuffling footsteps as quiet as her ragged breaths as she, too, tried to keep from crying.

After some time, the sounds from the bedroom evened out into his dad’s grunts and snores.

Relaxing a little, Clint crept forward again, finding the drawer he needed. He eased it open just wide enough for his hand. He slipped out a piece of paper, then felt around for loose pens, his heart leaping to his throat when his questioning fingers caused one to rattle against the side of the drawer. He froze, but the house’s sounds remained unchanged. He relaxed. Trembling fingers picked out the first pen he touched.

Bringing his prizes down under the desk with him, he closed the drawer and sat cross-legged in the shadows. He laid the paper out on the floor and curled over it, biting his lip in concentration. He carefully formed each letter just as Ms. Winters had taught him.

_____

 

santa

i now i alredy wrot you a leter but what i rely want is dad to be hapy so he wont hit us and mom wont be so sad. i dont care if you bring me prezents just plez make our famly hapy agen.

clint barton


	4. An Innocent Discovery (Anna, age 7)

“Daddy! Daddy!”

“Anna, angel!” Her father beamed, scooping her up and setting her on his thigh. “How are you, darling? What do you want?”

“Play Go Fish with me?”

Her father chuckled. “You know your Mama and I are still busy unpacking from the move, and I’ve got to go to work in a few minutes. Say! Why don’t you finish your Christmas list? It’s better to get that done early, don’t you think?”

Anna pouted. “But I want to _play._ ”

“Now that is a problem, isn’t it?” Her father ruffled her hair. “Hmm… how about you explore the new house?” He leaned in and playfully said, “I bet there’s a fairy hidden in one of these cupboards.”

She giggled. “Daddy, there’s no such thing as fairies. I’m _seven,_ ” she added in a matter-of-fact tone, as if it explained everything.

“ _Oh_ , you _caught_ me!” Her father threw a hand across his heart and sighed heavily. Perking up, he leaned forward so they were eye to eye. “You know what I bet there is, though?”

“What?” she piped.

“Good hiding places.”

She cocked her head.

“You want to play hide and seek sometime, don’t you?”

She bobbed her head eagerly.

“Well, you need good hiding places!” He bopped her on the nose.

“Paul!” Mama’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “It’s 8:15 already! If you don’t leave soon, you’ll be late.”

Her daddy smiled fondly, calling back, “Thank you, love. I was just saying goodbye to Anna.” He turned back to her. “Go on then. Dad’s got to go to work. I’ll play with you later, sweetie, okay?”

“Umhmm,” the child agreed, darting out of the room.

_____

Anna dragged the old chair back from her mother’s new writing desk. It was a big thing, coming almost to her shoulders. The smooth surface was coated with the scuffs and scratches of age, but the color was still a bold dark brown.

Mama had picked it out when they’d moved here from one of those special sales for dead people’s stuff.

The child stared at the shadowy depths of the underside. Even though it was midday, the back paneling was hard to see. It would make the perfect hiding spot! She crawled underneath, plenty of room on all sides. Pleased, she noticed both sides had gaps behind the desks.

_If I could fit into one of those, no one would ever find me!_

They looked a little small, but she was pretty sure she could at least fit part of her there. Turning to make room for her hips and shoulders, she used her toes to push herself further. _Almost there…_

Shoving herself a bit harder than intended, she smacked her head on the far side. “Ow!” she hissed softly. There was no reason to keep quiet, but it made it didn’t feel right to make noise when in a hiding spot.

She rubbed the bump on her head. That sure hadn’t _felt_ like wood. _Was wood really that hard?_

Her eyes strained against the blackness. Faintly, she could make out the outline of some kind of pole. Wiggling an arm free, Anna pressed her hand against the object, flinching at the coolness of metal. She traced the length of the rod. It seemed to attach the drawers to the tabletop.

 _“_ _Supporting them?_ _”,_ she wondered. Her fumbling fingers found what her eyes hadn’t. Wedged at the top was a crumpled piece of paper. She poked and tugged at it, teasing it out of its trap. It fell and she blindly dove after it, earning herself another bump on the head. Mentally scolding herself, she patted the ground until she found it again, then worked her way back into the open.

She held up her prize to the light, grinning. Dusting herself off, she unfolded the tight ball. A letter! To Santa! Eagerly, she began to read.


	5. A Mother's Concern (Emily, Anna's mom)

“Mama?”

“Mmm, one minute honey. Mama’s busy right now.”

“But mommy…”

Emily glanced over, sensing something wrong. She blinked as she took in her daughter’s dust-covered clothes and lost expression.

“Oh, Anna, honey! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

 _Bills and taxes be damned_ , she thought, pushing them away from her. Her Anna was crying! Emily slid off the chair to sit on the floor, pulling her baby-girl into her lap. The child went willingly, curling against Emily and wrapping her tiny arms around her mother’s neck. Worry swirling in her chest, Emily clutched at her distressed daughter, rocking the young girl soothingly.

“Honey, you can tell me anything,” she murmured into the dust-coated hair.  “Just please, tell me what’s wrong!”

Anna swallowed, her voice trembling and lost. “Mama… do dads sometimes… hit… their kids?”

Emily felt like she’d swallowed an ice cube in winter.

She held Anna away from her, searching her daughter’s face. “Has your father–“ Emily started, terrified of the answer, but was gladly cut off as the girl shook her head adamantly ‘no’. “Did one of your classmates...?”

She felt so lost. This wasn’t exactly the sort of thing they covered in parenting classes!

“Nuh-uh.” Anna looked down, fidgeting with something.

“What’ve you got there, sweetheart?” Emily asked.

Her baby-girl held out a crumpled piece of paper. The mother scanned the letter, tears coming to her eyes. “Oh, baby…”

“Mama,” Anna returned to her earlier question. “ _Do_ daddies…” her voice dropped to a horrified whisper, “hit their kids?”

Emily swallowed, rocking her daughter in her lap. “Sometimes… some of them… do.”

“ _Why?_ ” Anna’s voice mirrored every ounce of horror Emily felt.

“I don’t know, honey. I really don’t know.”

“Don’t they love their kids?”

“I imagine so, sweetie. In a way. But… but sometimes…” _What do I tell her?_ _She’s so young!_

“… Sometimes people do things they shouldn’t. And sometimes, some parents don’t treat their children the way they’re supposed to. And Anna, honey, that is never, ever okay.”

Emily carefully explained what child abuse was. By the end of it, she wasn’t sure whether she or Anna needed their hug more. “If you ever have someone treat you like that – or hear of someone being treated like that – I want you to tell me. Can you promise me that? Anna, angel?”

The girl nodded dutifully.

“Good girl.” She gave her daughter a watery smile, trying to lighten the mood. “I think you’ve been a very brave girl today. And brave little girls deserve cookies, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s make some of those nice chocolate chip ones like the ones Aunt Susie made for Thanksgiving, and we can leave the leftover ones for Santa.”


	6. A Child's Choice (Paul, Anna's father)

Paul closed the door behind him, then looked around expectantly. Following his nose, he found Emily and Anna in the kitchen. “Hey, where’s my hello?” he asked, surprised to see an unhappy expression on his daughter’s normally cheerful face.

“Honey?”

Emily came over and kissed his cheek. “Anna’s had a hard day.” Her fingers drifted over the edges of his collar. Noticing his gaze, she self-consciously smoothed them flat, clasping her hands together firmly. “May I speak with you for a moment?” She nodded towards the adjacent room.

“Oh! Sure.” He gently squeezed Anna’s shoulders. “Hey, pumpkin. I’ll be back in a bit.”

He tailed Emily out of the kitchen. “Em, what happened? Anna’s looking like someone’s dog died!”

In hushed tones, his wife explained the day’s events. Weary creases lined her eyes.

“You did real good, darling,” Paul said, embracing her tightly. Emily’s forehead dropped to rest against his collar and her breath hitched. Calmingly, he swayed side to side and pressed gentle kisses into her hair. He ran his hand patiently up and down her back, giving her time to collect herself.

He wished he could be of more use. If he could protect his love from all the world’s troubles through a simple hug, he’d never let her go. Protectiveness and helplessness swirled in his chest and he squeezed her tighter, trying to convey every ounce of his love and support.

After a few minutes she stepped back and gave him a tense smile. “Well,” she laughed weakly, “I guess we’d better head back.”

Paul touched his nose to hers. “I guess it’s my turn to talk to Anna.”

Emily stood on tiptoe and kissed the tip of his nose. “Yes.”

Simple and sweet, the same reasons he fell in love with her.

He let out a deep breath and combed a finger through his hair. “Okay, just… just give me a minute.”

His wife nodded and slipped past him, back into the kitchen.

 _Wow,_ Paul thought, not sure where to start with everything. He looked down at the floor, only then realizing he still wore his coat and shoes. Grateful for the excuse, he busied himself with the simple tasks of getting out of office attire. As he sank into the familiar routine, he tried to think of what to tell his daughter. It was times like these that he really felt every ounce of the weight of fatherhood.

Shuffling back into the kitchen, he eased himself into the chair next to Anna. He felt no closer to finding words now than he’d been five minutes ago.

“You want to... talk about it?”

Her lip trembled and she leaned over to wrap her arms around his middle, burying her face against his stomach. Paul looked over to Emily. She returned his helpless look with a sad smile of her own, and ducked out of the kitchen to give them privacy.

He stroked her hair. As he did, he spoke quietly, “You know, angel, your mama and I love you very, very much. You’re very fortunate to have parents who love you as much as we do.” He looked at the letter sitting conspicuously in solitude at the center of the table, an innocent-looking beacon for his gaze. In the stack of papers next to it, a flyer for a charity fundraiser for the nearby animal shelter poked out. An idea came to him.

“Clint’s not the only boy who… could have had… _better_ … parents,” he stated, trying not to further bruise his daughter’s tender heart. “You could help some of them, you know.”

Anna pushed herself into a sitting position, hope gleaming in her honey-brown eyes, completely uncaring of the tear tracks on her face. “Really?”

He kissed her forehead. “Really.”

_____

“Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“I think I know what I want for Christmas now.”

_____

Dear Santa,

I found a letter from a boy named Clint. Can you please give his daddy my presents so he’ll be happy again and stop hitting Clint and his mama? Thank you!

Sincerely,

 ~~Sinsirily~~ ,

Anna Isabelle Clements

_____

That Christmas, the Clements family donated $200 to their city’s shelter for abused women and children. Almost half of it Anna had earned herself, working odd jobs for the neighbors, collecting from friends and classmates, and donating her allowance. To their dying days, it remained one of Paul and Emily’s proudest moments as parents.


	7. A Home Not My Own (Barney, age 13)

Dear Santa,

Did you not bring me presents because I’m happy Dad is dead?

Sinserely,

Clinton Francis Barton

______

 

Barney wandered about their latest foster house, looking for his brother. It was way past that kid’s bedtime and the brat ought to be asleep by now. Barney sure as heck wasn’t gonna take the blame if the knuckle-head had trouble getting up in the morning. He found Clint in the kitchen slumped over the table, purple pencil limp in his fist.

Habitually, Barney sorted crayons, markers, pencils into their proper holders and used his hand to brush crayon dust onto the floor, returning the table to its original approximation of clean. As an afterthought, he rescued his brother’s drawing paper from where it lay in danger of being drooled on. Dead to the world, the kid didn’t even stir.

It was a note, each letter formed with the painstaking care and precision of someone still determined to write as neat as possible. For a nine-year-old, the writing itself was actually quite legible. Reading it, Barney’s heart sunk in his chest, then corroded with acidic anger. Their foster brother, George, must have taken Clint’s present and unwrapped it. And there _had_ been one there – Barney had heard Mrs. Mathers (she would _never_ be _his_ mother) get up to play Santa and had gone out to check under the tree after she’d returned to bed.

His kid brother probably hadn’t even bothered asking their new ‘Mom’ if there was even _supposed_ to be a present for him under the tree; she’d always favored ‘precious little Georgie’ – her own son – over them.

_Couldn’t even keep your grabby little fists to yourself for one day, you spoiled pig?_

The paper crumpled in his fist.

… _Oops_.

He unfolded it slowly, hoping the crinkling of the paper wouldn’t wake Clint.

Their bastard of an old man deserved what he got, sure, but how could a good kid like his baby bro think “Santa” would ever pass him up? And he _was_ a good kid, even though he could be a pest at times. Dad was wrong.

Barney sighed. _At least he has the presents from Toys For Tots._ It wasn’t the same as getting one from ‘Santa,’ though.

The older boy glanced at the note again, shaking his head before and closing his eyes, fighting down an all-to-familiar surge of frustration. He just wished there was something he could _do_ , if only to prove to his kid-brother that he wasn’t being punished or forgotten – not this time. They’d had too many bad Christmases, but no matter how unhappy their home had been, there’d always been a present from ‘Santa’ under the tree, waiting for Clint, and Barney wasn’t about to let this time be any different!

The older boy stared down at the slack face, brushing the soft blond hair away from his sleeping brother’s eyes. An idea sparked in his mind and his lips curled into a devious grin. Habit immediately erased the expression from his face (yet another ‘souvenir’ from dear old Dad), his eyes flicking instinctively around the room, automatically checking if anyone was watching.

Nodding decisively to himself, he folded the paper into a tiny square of precise creases and discretely crammed it into the elastic of his boxers, for lack of pockets on his sleepwear.

 _Back to business. You, buddy, are up way past your bedtime._ He smirked. _Well, not exactly ‘up’…_

Barney considered waking Clint (the brat deserved it for falling asleep out of bed), but decided against it. Not that he’d ever admit it to anyone other than himself, but he had a soft spot for the twerp. It seemed a shame to wake him when he looked so peaceful. Under his closed lids, his baby bro’s eyes twitched in time with his dreams.

 _Like a puppy_ , he decided with a quiet chuckle.

Carefully, Barney edged his fingers under the sleeping boy’s limp form, scooping him up and carting him to their shared room. He depositing the younger boy in his bed, tucking him in like Mom used to do. The memory made his chest tight and he blinked away tears. Brushing the hair away from Clint’s forehead, he placed a light kiss to the boy’s temple.

Tiptoeing back to the kitchen, he poked through the recycle bin.

 _Aha!_ Just as he’d thought!

Near the bottom were Clint and George’s letters to Santa. Although he knew it wouldn’t make a lick of difference, he shredded George’s with slow, deliberate motions. It made him feel a little better. He palmed Clint’s letter and slipped back to their room, slipping both notes into the front cover of his history textbook so Clint wouldn’t see it. He took a deep breath and let it out. Crawling into bed, he smiled drowsily at his sleeping sibling.

“G’night, Clint,” he breathed. _I can’t protect you from everything bad in this world, but I’m gonna do the best I can. Just you wait, kid. I’m gonna make your Christmas special. Promise._

______

The next morning, as his teacher droned away about yet another dead king, Barney slipped the letter on top of his textbook

 

Dear Santa,

How are you? Barney doesn’t beleive in you anymore, but I do. Will you still bring him stuff? Don’t bring George anything. He put mud in my shoes and it made Mrs. Mathers mad at me again. How is Rudolph? I know it’s a lot to ask but this Christmas can you bring my mom back please? And I want a dog. Presents are fine too.  Merry Christmas.

Sincerily,

Clinton Francis Barton

 

Barney swallowed hard. He hurriedly put the letter away, and focused on breathing in and out evenly, digging his nails into his palms. Calming down, he mentally re-examined the content.

 _A dog, huh? Boy, Clint, you sure don’t ask for small favors. And Mom..._ He grimaced. _Sorry, kid. Mom’s not coming back._

Well, cross those two off the list of possibilities; he’d have to improvise. Checking in to what his teacher was saying, he was unsurprised to find the lecture hadn’t improved. 38 minutes to go. He occupied himself by compiling a mental list of things Clint might enjoy.

At the ring of the bell, he stuffed his books into his bag and raced out of school. He double checked his watch and muttered a curse under his breath – he’d have to run if he didn’t want to make Mrs. Mathers suspicious by being late. Jogging down the street, Barney followed his mental map to the toy store. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, and strode calmly to the front counter. “Excuse me, Mister. Have you got any bows and arrows?”

______

He left his surprise buried under Clint’s pants. The toy shop had had the archery set on a bit of an after-Christmas sale, but it had still been more than he’d ever spent… way more than he’d elect to spend on himself, given his limited budget; odd jobs didn’t make all _that_ much money. After some debate he’d decided he could live with the price. It was for a good cause, after all, and it wasn’t like he really had anything else to spend the cash on. On a whim, he wrote a quick note in reply. His lips quirked upward as he read it. Slipping it into the quiver, he slid the drawer shut.

_Merry Christmas, Clint._

______

 

Dear Clint,

You’ve been a very good boy this year. I’m sorry I had to wait to give you this - I didn’t want George to take it from you. You can practice in the hallway while he’s at soccer practice. I had an elf set up some small targets for you. I wasn’t able to bring your mom with me, but I talked to her. She’s in a good place and tells you not to worry about her and that she’ll always love you.

Merry Christmas!

Santa


	8. The Gift Of A Family (Bert, a community service volunteer)

Dear Santa,

The circus is amazing. Barney’s still a jerk but what can you expect from a brother. Kasi’s sweet and Tempi is silly and Angie likes to play and Swordsman challenges me at cards and Trickshot is teaching me to shoot his bow. I don’t need anything for Christmas. The last few years I asked for a family and already got that and they’re better than I deserve so I’m not gonna ask for anything (but if you do bring me something, I’d like my own bow.). Say hi to Mrs. Claus for me and my mom too. Is she liking Heaven?

Merry Christmas!

Clint

______

 

Methodically, Bert picked up the debris on the now-deserted fairground, using his tongs to deposit wrappers, cans, and discarded tickets into the nearby bins. One napkin caught his eye. Rather than dappled with the green and brown of food stains, it was covered in blue scribbles.

Leaning over with a groan, he scooped the note up, cumbersome work gloves getting dirt and grass caught up too. He straightened with a groan, using his knee as leverage. (He really was getting too old to bend like this.) Padded fingers brushed away the dirt and stretched the crumpled paper flat.

The man snorted when he realized what it was. He’d heard of authors and politicians penning speeches and such on the backs of envelopes and train napkins, but never a note to good ol’ Kris Kringle! He hesitated with his hand over the half-full bin. With a chuckle, he stuffed it into his back pocket instead and returned to work.

That evening, as he was undressing for bed, his fingers brushed the note. Pulling it out, he looked over again. It reminded him of all sorts of fond memories of his own children. They’d been grown a while now, but it seemed like only yesterday that they, too, wrote letters to “Santa” begging for dolls, trucks, board games, and other childish things.

His eyes crinkled. He remembered relaxing on the couch with them, pulling them each onto his knees, and telling them stories of reindeer prancing on the roof, adding ridiculous sound effects just to hear their laughter.

Family. His fingers brushed over the word. So simple, yet carrying such weight.

Memories darted across his mind and he lost a few minutes staring at the paper as he reminisced. Catching himself wearing the edges to tatters, he reached over to put it on the relative safety of his bedside table. Twisting to work the kinks out of his back, he shirked off his pants, turned off the lights and swung himself into bed.

Outside, the tree leaves rustled in the wind. In the quiet between gusts of wind, he could hear the faint whoosh of the cars as they rumbled down the main road. A drunken pair of teenagers made their way down the road, laughing a little too loud as they mocked each other.

Bert snorted and rolled onto his side, away from the window. The napkin-note lay as an indistinct rectangle on the black of the wood, the crinkles starkly illuminated by the strips of light coming through the shutters.

Prompted by the child’s words, now illegible in the dark, Bert’s mind returned to thoughts of his own family. It had been almost a year since he’d talked to his daughter and he couldn’t remember how long it was since he last saw his son. They’d had so much fun together when they were younger. He didn’t really know how or why they’d drifted apart. Life had just… got in the way, he supposed.

It would be so much fun to see them again. He missed them and the warmth and joy they brought to the house. It would be nice to catch up…

He looked over to the clock, checking the time. The glowing display indicated it was barely 11pm. Surly his night-owl son would still be awake. On a whim, he scooped up the phone by his bed and punched in the number, not bothering to turn on the light. Using his free hand, he shoved himself into an approximation of sitting and waited.

He tapped his fingers idly against the side.

Tap. Tap. Tap-tap…. Tap.

_Rrrrrrr—_

“H’llo?” a familiar voice asked.

“Hey, kiddo!” Bert replied affectionately, lounging back against his pillows. “It’s Dad. I was wonderin’… how’d you an’ your sister like to come over for Christmas dinner and catch up with your ol’ man?”


	9. I Wish I May, I Wish I Might (Clint, post-Loki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: swearing, mentions of suicidal thoughts, self-guilt and incrimination

Santa,

I don’t know if you exist. Fuck – I haven’t even written to you since I was back in the circus, taking pot shots at the kiddie targets. Still, mutants can shapeshift and levitate, Tony Stark is working with SHIELD, and I helped with a god take down another god, so maybe you exist too.

I don’t know if you even give presents to people like me. Probably not. Being an assassin doesn’t exactly put me on the “Nice” List, does it…

Damn it! Why am I even writing this dumb letter? Hell, it’s not like even ~~Ph~~ Agent Coulson can magically come back from the dead. Nobody can. But yeah. That’s my wish for Christmas. Stupid, huh. Still pining over some guy who should have been a nobody. That’s the thing, though. He wasn’t, Santa. ~~Phil~~ ~~Couls~~ Dammit  Phil he wasn’t a nobody. He never was. Not to me, anyway. Some random suit finds me on the street looking like he ought to be someone’s accountant or god knows what, then tracks me 3 wks and beats me at hand to hand. He found me when I was a worthless street rat and, god knows why, decided I was worth something.

Fuck. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I killed him. ~~Forget it. Don’t bring~~ <\--- IGNORE THAT!!!

 ~~I still want~~    ~~Please brin~~    ~~If~~    ~~I would do anything~~

I don’t deserve to have him back, even if it were possible. I know that. I should tear this up right now.

I can’t though. Pathetic, isn’t it. You see, Santa, this is my last bit of hope. I really don’t know what I’m going do if this doesn’t work. Not that it’s possible some jolly old fat man in a red suit’s going to be able to bring a ghost back from the dead. Writing to you just seemed like a better option than shooting until 8my fingers bleed. Again.

I’m not sure how much longer I can go on. People say not to blame myself, but that’s a lot easier said than done. Don’t tell, but Nat’s probably the only reason I’m still here anymore. I can’t won’t do that to her. Ever. She deserves better, even if I don’t.

Please, bring him back.

Clint

______

 

Clint stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the bed as if closing his eyes might make the figure in it disappear. Wearing the worn, bland smile he had for over a decade, Coulson leaned heavily against the pillows as the Avengers crowded around him peppering him with questions. Natasha sat in the chair nearest the bed – silent, but wearing the happiest expression he’d seen in a long time. Her hand clutched Coulson’s arm in her own confirmation. Clint couldn’t blame her, as he was having trouble believing it himself.

It was definitely Coulson, though; when Cap gave his signature “Call me ‘Steve’”, the man had turned pink as Cap did watching modern ads!

The conversation died off as Coulson looked to the door. His handler’s smile gentled, in understanding.

“Hey, bird-brain, come join the gang!” Tony called, spinning around. He gave Clint a second glance when his brain caught up with his eyes. “Oi, oi. Clint, buddy, you’re not looking so good…”

His teammate took a step forward, hand coming up but not quite touching.

Clint barely heard him through the swirl of thoughts tumbling through his head. One thought stood out, a constant drone underlying all the others.

_Phi- …Coulson’s alive._

His heart felt like it had forgotten how to beat. He had trouble breathing.

 _Coulson’s alive. Coulson’s alive. Coulson's_ alive.

Part of him understood he was halfway to a panic attack. Coulson held out his free hand in invitation, the Avengers stepping back to let him through.

Clint staggered to the bedside, clinging to the outstretched hand like it was his lifeline, and curling over it protectively. Coulson was nice enough not to complain or call him out on it, although the archer was almost certain his grip was at painful levels.

At the touch, the universe stopped spinning as the missing pieces of his world slid back into place. Legs unsteady, he slid to the floor in the space between Nat’s chair and the bed. His knees smacked the floor painfully and he felt Nat wince in sympathy. Reaching over, she tenderly combed her fingers through his hair, before letting her hand drift to his shoulder. Uncaring for the moment that everyone was watching him, he let his head fall forward to rest against Coulson’s leg. He was a solid, reassuring comfort, despite his current condition, and Clint gratefully drew strength from the familiar presence.

_Alive. Real._

The rest of the team slipped out, giving them a moment of privacy.

He tried to speak, mouth opening and closing like a fish, but nothing came out. In stark contrast to a minute ago, his mind was blank and he floundered for words.

His handler gave his hands a gentle squeeze, silent permission to take as much time as he needed.

After an uncounted number of minutes, he looked up to meet his friend’s eyes and had to blink away the glaze that settled over his vision.

“ _Phil_ ,” he choked out, not caring what he’d given away. He couldn’t think of any words to follow it. Then again, maybe that was the only word he needed. The only one that really mattered.

______

 

Dear Santa, thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> A slightly belated Happy Holidays to everyone and I hope you have a fantastic 2015! If you liked this story, please comment. I love hearing back from my readers! You all are awesome, beautiful people and it makes my day to find your messages in my inbox. :-)
> 
> For those who saw my first story, entitled Redefined, I am still working on it. I took it down because I had issues with the version that was posted. (Not to worry, lovely people who enjoyed it - large chunks of it will be returning in the revamped story!) The work won't be abandoned, although (obviously) it's going to be a long while before I finish it and I'm not going to even hazard a date for that. Thank you to all my lovely readers who commented and supported me in writing it. I kept every single comment and I love re-reading them when I need inspiration and encouragement. <3


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